Our Perpetual Dream
by une see
Summary: A series of [SpikeJuliaVicious] fics, written for LJ fanfic challenge comm 30dreams.
1. 29: Breathe

**A/N:** Written for yet another LJ fanfic challenge comm, 30dreams. Theme #29: breathe. So I'm being really productive lately, aka not having a life due to vacation. Fun! (P.S. This is slightly AU at the end, and it's set pre-Bebop.)

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**Breathe**

Sometimes, I dream of faces black as the sun, taunting me, mocking me, asking me which one do I truly love, which one, which one? As their menacing, blank not-faces draw nearer and nearer, closing in on the hapless dream Julia, I try to breathe, try to run, try to scream, but always, always, all I can do is embrace the darkness, as if there is nothing left to do but burn.

But dreams are just dreams, after all, and I always wake up, sometimes with the warmth of Spike's breath surrounding me, sometimes with the harsh angles of Vicious engulfing me. And sometimes, I wish I could just dream on forever, and maybe in that dream, I could be with both of them, loving both of them, and…and more than anything, we would be _happy_.

And sometimes Spike notices when I am dreaming because he tells me, so softly, in that voice of his that makes me want to clutch at his hair and lick his sins off, that my eyes are bluer than usual. And then he tells me that I'm beautiful, and everything is okay, just for that one moment forever frozen in my memory, just for that one moment where I do not have to choose.

When Vicious notices, because I know that he too loves me, his eyes grow harder and colder, and in that guttural, tender voice of his that makes me want to snap at his neck and cry, he tells me that I look like a dead woman. But I know what he really means to tell me is that he wants me to stop dreaming, to look at him, to love him, to lick _his_ sins off, forever.

Spike asked me once, "Do you love him, still?" with such a look of melancholy in his eyes that I couldn't tell him the truth, couldn't tell him that yes, yes, I love him, I love you, is that really so _wrong_? So I got up off his lap, as if I was angry with him, and I told him never to ask me that again.

Vicious, I think, knows about Spike and me, me and Spike, but he tries to pretend that everything is as it has always been, me and Vicious, Vicious and Spike. But dreams are just dreams, after all, and there's no use trying to dream away things that have grown to be as they are. We never wake up.

I breathe, in and out, in and out, slow and steady, as if my heart isn't broken, as if I am just learning how to stay alive, after all this time. Spike breathes next to me, in and out, in and out, as if his best friend isn't and has never been Vicious, as if he does not know how to stay alive, after all this time. And Vicious is not breathing, has never been breathing, is dead, is dead, forever and never. There is no more dreaming. There is no more dreaming.

The darkness invades my sleep, and I fall into the shadows of what life has become. I dream on, forever. I wake up in the arms of the man that I love, the one who is left, but the dream has not ended, has never ended, will never end. I breathe, but I am not alive, and this is the truth of giving up, and taking in, and never letting go. I dream on, forever.

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	2. 11: Sweet Melody

**A/N**: Written for LJ fanfic challenge comm 30dreams. Prompt #11: sweet melody.

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**Sweet Melody**

I brush my fingers over the smooth angles of Spike's grinning face, and I think about things we haven't said, things we have said, things we will never say. Vicious throws open the door, in his usual dramatic manner (I really do amuse myself sometimes), and he seems almost overjoyed, for some unknown reason. Maybe he tortured more people today than he was expecting to.

Vicious half-snarls at us, "I got it. It was a bitch to get, but I finally got it."

Spike rests his hand on Vicious' muscular neck, and he kisses him, long and hard. Seeing Spike's messy green mop of hair sharply contrasted against Vicious' delicate, silver tresses makes my heart hurt, and I try to imagine my own limpid, flaxen hair fanned out between their mismatched heads.

"So…what exactly did you get that was such a bitch to obtain?" I can't help myself when I see Spike and Vicious together, without _me_- I get so jealous the space between my fluttering eyelids and my pale, squinting eyes fills up with a watery kind of buzzing, a melancholy splash of anger at the only two men I have ever loved.

Vicious drawls, slow as molasses, "Well, Julia, I was just going to show you right now. Why are you so fucking impatient all of a sudden? Here it is." He reaches deep into his coat pocket, and he produces a cherry-colored wooden box after a few seconds of rummaging around in whatever godforsaken junk is in that pocket.

I am quite intrigued as to what the contents of said box are, but things are never simple with me and Vicious and Spike. I circle the box, slowly, stealthily; I bend over it, inspecting the mysterious box, but really, I'm just making sure that their eyes are on me and my perfect ass. I truly am a whore sometimes, but they're the ones who make me feel this way. They're the ones who make me want to do anything and everything, just to keep us here. Just like this.

Finally, after Vicious begins to tire of this game that we all play, but that I am best at, he and his surprisingly slight fingers pluck the box out from under my burnished nose, and he opens it. I don't recognize the tune at first, but then it comes to me: the music pouring out of the cherry box now is the same music that was playing back then, when I first met Vicious, and later, when he introduced me to Spike, and Spike to me. The dreaming notes fall iridescently through the silence in the cozy room, wrapping us all up in distant memories, of maybe happier times.

"Vicious…how did you…?" I hate the glimmering tremor in my voice, a haze of black and white old movie dreams fogging up my graying vision.

"Today's your birthday, isn't it, Julia? Spike and I (well, mostly Spike) wanted to do something for you, and we thought you might like something like this. I have no time for sentimentality, as you very well know, but you have always had a certain fondness for it. And Spike is just an idiot, of course."

Spike doesn't say anything; he merely rests his head on my shoulder and entwines his lithe fingers with mine. I pretend not to see his other arm pulling at Vicious' waist, and I think to myself, as Our Sweet Melody plays on in the background, that I am the luckiest girl in the world (how sappy!).

Well, one thing leads to another, and all three of us end up on my only-so-big-but-extraordinarily-comfy-bed, doing unspeakable things to each other, and just generally having a grand old time. Afterwards, I lay in the warmth of Spike and Vicious, Vicious and Spike, staring at the tiny cracks in my faded blue ceiling.

I fall asleep eventually, still clutching onto the taut skin of their naked bodies, and I dream the dreams that have always been. As I run through meadows blooming fire, Spike and Vicious on either side of me, the lullaby I have come to know as our own echoes in my ears, chiming uncontrollably.

When I wake up, they are gone, and I am cold. The cherry music box sits on the table where we left it the night before, a note resting like snow on top of it. It's from Spike and Vicious, saying that they have business to attend to, and that they'll be back as soon as possible.

I lay the note carefully in the overflowing dresser drawer where I keep all their notes to me, and I return to the table and open the music box, our music box. I close my eyes and sway to the flowing rhythm of our supposed love, the soothing sounds washing over me like rain.

And I continue living the dream, that endless siren song of our past forever burning souls into my Horace heart.

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